


Broken Men

by halyandpear



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Other, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-22 17:54:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11972577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halyandpear/pseuds/halyandpear
Summary: Jon is now both a Stark and King as decreed by Robb's will. He's taken Winterfell with the help of Sansa and Petyr Baelish, but he's changed since his death. Arya's heard conflicting tales of both his death and ascension, and decides she must return to see for herself.I have no idea where this story is going, if anywhere. Takes place somewhere after the chronology of Dance, and kind of after the sixth season, though I'm not following the show canon; just borrowing some plot.





	1. King Crow

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing. I've had a few pages floating around for a while but debated on ever posting them. I decided to because, well, the TV show is disappointing me at the moment. In truth I'm much more a reader than writer, but George is taking too long and he's leaving me no choice. I have no idea how this will turn out. I'm trying to write as close to book canon as possible in terms of the characters, cause I miss reading about them. 
> 
> Basically this takes place after the sixth season but Ramsay was still married to Jeyne Poole who died from the cold or something whatever who cares and Sansa and Littlefinger were already planning to take Winterfell so they joined forces with Jon. Baelish went back to the Vale for a bit and Arya has left the FM after hearing about all this. I have no idea if I'll write more than what I've already written, but I have ideas. 
> 
> Like I said this is my first attempt at writing anything and dialogue in particular is new to me. Constructive criticism is welcome (please alert me to any grammatical errors!)

**Jon**

Sansa and Jon were seated at the high table in Winterfell’s great hall, as befit their status. They were the only ones, aside from Ghost under the table. Jon fed him honeyed chicken as he had once long ago. In a moon’s turn they would be joined by Petyr Baelish and Robert Arryn, the young Lord of the Vale. As his subjects drank and laughed before him Jon found himself wishing he were amongst them as he used to be, back when he was just a bastard. Only a small number of his father’s household remained, many having fled or lost their life to Theon Turncloak and the Bastard of Bolton. Others had perished in King’s Landing with his father, or with Robb at the Twins… as he should have.

Sansa was trying to speak to him, “…and we must find some appropriate way to reward Lord Royce, he commanded his forces well…”

Jon nodded and periodically sent smiles in her direction. This seemed to please her. He missed his brothers. He missed Ygritte, with her crooked smile and fire in her hair. He missed Arya, who could always make him laugh.

“…very soon, don’t you agree?” Sansa finished, looking to him expectantly.

“Mm,” he said, not hearing a word.

Her eyes softened in affection. “He’ll be home soon. Then he can rest.” Her tone had a resolve and steel to it that had not been present during her childhood. In truth, she was still a child. He oft forgot that she had been forced from innocence too soon, as he had.

“Who will?” he asked. _Try to salvage this to some form of coherency_.  

Sansa rolled her eyes. He supposed she had correctly guessed his mind was elsewhere. “Father will. I _was_ _saying_ we should ask Petyr to bring Lord Robert’s stone carver with his revenue. He will know Father’s face from when he was Jon Arryn's ward.”

He lowered his eyes in shame. He should have been discussing how to honour his father’s memory and instead he was dwelling on his own pain. His pain… and other's. _Gilly's eyes as I took her child. The Halfhand's dying breath. Ygritte, an arrow through her chest. Snowflakes melting in Robb's hair._ He closed his eyes.

“'Tis a good plan. Ours is dead, after all,” he said, with no small amount of bitterness.  

Jon stood and excused himself, intending to visit the godswood before he retired. Ghost prowled after him.

“And Jon – remember Brienne should be returning any day now, I should like you to be there when we receive her!” Sansa called after him.

Men lowered their heads in respect as he passed them now, so changed from the indifference or, in Lady Catelyn’s case, glares of distrust he was used to. For tonight, he ignored his kingly courtesies and hurried to the godswood, much too melancholy to conduct himself with any form of grace.

Jon knelt before the great weirwood. He looked into its red weeping eyes and found comfort as Lord Eddard once had before him. The weirwoods were the last remnants of the greenseers and a wilder Westeros. He moved back to sit in the nook of the tree and Ghost rested his head in his lap. His wolf found serenity here too. _He belongs to the Old Gods, this one._

 

* * *

 

He was still in the godswood when a hand on his shoulder jolted him awake, belonging to a nervous looking Hornwood lad.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he stammered. “Guards have spotted a party riding for Winterfell, barely a league away. We sent an envoy out to meet them. Lady Brienne appears to be among their company.”

Jon frowned. “Their banners?” he asked.

“None, Your Grace. It’s the brotherhood.”

                                                                    

* * *

 

Their commanders, if the Brotherhood Without Banners had commanders, entered the hall alongside Brienne of Tarth. There were two men, who introduced themselves as Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr. The Lightning Lord, as Dondarrion was known, was said to wreak havoc and disappear as quickly as his sigil would suggest. Brienne appeared uncomfortable besides him. They offered no courtesies to him and did not kneel. Had Jon been a prouder man, he might have cared.

“Welcome, Brienne,” Sansa said, smiling. Brienne returned his sister’s smile and moved to stand by her Lady.

Jon eyed the newcomers suspiciously. “I would know your purpose here.”

Thoros grinned nastily. “Would you now? Mayhaps I’m in no mood to tell you.”

“You’re in my father’s castle. If you will not state your intents you will leave,” Jon told him, simply and without anger.

Lord Beric sighed at his friend's behaviour. “Forgive him. The Brotherhood Without Banners protects the realm, and her greatest threat is bound north, and so we must be. We ask only for passage through without resistance. Though we wouldn’t say no to provisions, mind you.”

“Your band here contains deserters from Robb’s army, as I understand. Lannisters too,” Jon said, with some amount of distaste.

“Wolf, Stag or Lion – all are welcome to the Brotherhood,” Lord Beric replied.

He looked at them and sighed. “You may rest your men at Winterfell for no more than moon’s turn.  Then you must leave, or else find other accommodation. We will expect many visitors soon enough and will not be able to house you. I will warrant a scroll giving my permission of your presence, which you may present to the Lord of any stronghold that will have you. Or you may prefer to settle in the Gift, as many of the Free Folk have.”

“My thanks, Jon Snow.” Officially Jon was a Stark, as decreed by Robb’s will, but he never corrected anyone who forgot.

“Where’s the girl then? Not coming out to greet her old friends?” intervened the red priest, looking back and forth between Jon and Sansa. 

“Of whom do you speak, Ser?” Sansa asked.

“Your sister,” Thoros replied with a smirk. “She was with us for a time, you know, and the lad she was travelling with still is. Didn’t she tell you?”

Jon glared at him. He cared neither for the man's tone nor his expression. “If you refer to our sister Arya, she is not here. And I suggest you refrain from mockery, _priest_.”

The idiot guffawed. “Hard not to. She really is so easy to mock.” Despite his words his eyes held affection and so Jon attempted to be less obvious with his disdain.

“Speak, then, mockery and all. When was my sister with you?”

He must have sensed Jon’s anxiety, as he spoke plainly. “We treated her well enough, Lord Snow, don’t you worry. She ran from us a few weeks before the Red Wedding.”

His heart practically stopped. He turned and questioned Brienne sharply, “When did you see her?”

“After that, Your Grace,” Brienne said reassuringly.

“Was she alone?”

“No, she…” Brienne continued, glancing nervously at Sansa, “She was with the Hound.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Sansa looked accusingly at her. “I would hear the truth now, Brienne. _All_ the truth."

Brienne lifted her eyes anxiously. “Yes, My Lady. We – Podrick and I – saw your sister not far from the Bloody Gate, Podrick recognised the Hound and as we had been told she was with him I... believed her his captive, and duelled him. She had disappeared by the time it was over.”

The hall went quiet. _My sister travelled with Joffrey's dog._  If he was anything like his brother, Arya was dead.Jon closed his eyes and clenched his fists. “And you didn’t think to tell us this. Mayhaps you did not think us trustworthy of this information, Lady Brienne?” Jon seethed.

She had the grace to look embarrassed, turning her eyes down.

“So she’s dead.”

"No, Your Grace!"

“Arya is quick and clever, Jon,” Sansa quickly interceded, attempting to mollify him. “She may well-“

“SHE’S A CHILD!” he bellowed, standing up, “SHE’S BEEN ALONE AND RUNNING SINCE FATHER WAS KILLED. SHE COULD HAVE BEEN TORTURED OR RAPED OR GODS KNOW WHAT ELSE!” He slammed his palms down on the table, shaking it.

He calmed himself enough to regain his composure. “On the morrow I would see this lad of yours, Lord Beric.”

He strode furiously from the hall, leaving an awed silence in his wake.

“Find the maester,” he barked to the guards on the way out, “I want ravens sent. If anyone from The Wall to Sunspear has seen or heard anything of Arya Stark I want to hear it.” The guards nodded curtly and turned to do their bidding. Jon then worked his frustration for two hours in the training yard and did not sup that night.

Later, he threw the door to his chambers open and collapsed on the bed just as his eyes drifted shut, his dreams filled with massacres and lost siblings.


	2. The Interval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter detailing Arya's transition from Braavos to the North. I know the geographical route of the merchant doesn't really make sense but who cares.

**Arya**

Arya felt fat and restless. She’d been in Gulltown for weeks now and done nothing. The merchant she’d bought passage with from Braavos would be visiting every port on the east side of Westeros but had insisted on trading in Gulltown before sailing on to White Harbor. It had taken the full force of her barely feminine guise to persuade him even to avoid King’s Landing. Business was heavy with people stocking up on their small luxuries before winter hit. Gulltown wouldn’t suffer too much during winter but the long, drawn out summer had people panicking. The staunch Braavosi was not like to pass up the opportunity.

Once it became apparent to Arya of the merchant’s long delay, she purchased from him several bottles of hair dye from Tyrosh. The Tyroshi specialised in deep blues, vibrant greens and bold reds – in short, not colours that would aid her to travel unnoticed. She did, however, find a bottle that promised the user the exact shade of a 'sweet lady’ which, to her dismay, turned out to be Lannister gold. She looked ridiculous.

With her dyed hair and feigned Braavosi accent, ridiculous as she may have looked, she felt safe enough to wander the city. Most of her days she spent laughing and listening to the stories of merchants from King’s Landing to Myr and Pentos at the trading port. Listening to their jubilant tales and booming laughter Arya, for a brief time, forgot about her grief. But it returned, as it always did. A solemn face that reminded her of her father; a shock of auburn that made her think of Robb and her mother. In a common dog she would remember striking Nymeria with rocks. Even in her own Needle she saw Lannister guards surrounding Syrio or Jon Snow riding away from her. The grief turned to hate. Hate for Cersei and her vile son and all those who had ever wronged her. And so, the hate would creep back into her thoughts, waking and sleeping.

She thought of adding the Night’s Watchmen whom they say had killed Jon to her list, but she didn’t know their names. Besides, she didn’t know the truth of it yet. From Braavos she’d heard songs of him, songs she _thought_ were about him, anyway. And in those songs he was very much alive. She was almost certain Sansa was also at Winterfell – she was in the songs too. Sansa had always had a face for songs.

It was a welcome relief when the Braavosi came to her one night, a month since they had docked, and informed her that they would be departing for White Harbor at first light.

She was returning home at last.


	3. Lovely and Lethal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm writing under the assumption that Gendry followed his book plot, so he doesn't know his heritage. Stannis is dead, Mel's gone south to do whatever, and Mance is dead too (I'm assuming Ramsay really did capture and kill him).

**Jon**

“What’s your name?”

“Gendry, m’lord.”

“Lord Beric tells me you travelled with my sister, Arya. How did this come to happen?”

“We were in Yoren’s band m’lord, heading north to take the black.”

“Odd, I don’t recall seeing you at Castle Black.”

“The Lannisters captured us and took us to Harrenhal. We escaped.”

“And then the Brotherhood caught you, is that it?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

… And shortly thereafter she had run from them and been taken by the Hound in the process. This was useless. Gendry was telling him nothing he hadn’t already heard. He sighed in resignation.

Beric had told him that Gendry was a bastard. Learning that a bastard had befriended Arya brought a strange warmth to his heart. His sister hadn’t changed, he gathered, in that she would still befriend bastards and whores and kings all alike. 

“Your Lord tells me you’re a smith,” Jon commented. “And a talented one, at that.”

Gendry offered no affirmation but merely shifted his feet and lowered his gaze in a modest sort of embarrassment. He was of an age with Jon, though both taller and broader, yet there was a boyishness in his laughing eyes that he himself lacked. Jon could see that he was also very strong; apt to wield a greatsword or warhammer.

“If so, you would be welcome to stay here in Winterfell. We’ve a need of smiths,” Jon offered.

Gendry lifted his eyes and chuckled, “Funny. She offered the same.”

“She offered you a place at Winterfell?” Jon asked, surprised. Gendry nodded. Strange, Arya was not usually not so forthcoming as _that_. She must have trusted this boy. “Did you accept?”

Eyes downcast again at this, he noticed. “No, m’lord. I didn’t want to serve some king I didn't know, so I stayed with the Brotherhood.”

Jon suspected it was for this very reason that Arya had run in the first place. He could have blamed Gendry for that, but he knew better than anyone that she would have run off, eventually. His rejection had only most likely triggered that instinct.   _The wolf blood. I have it too._

“Well, Gendry, will you accept _my_ offer?” Jon asked.

Gendry looked confused. “Leave the Brotherhood? I’ve sworn myself to them, m’lord. I couldn’t.”

Jon sighed. He was slow, this one. “Much as I’d like to steal from Lord Beric, that was not my suggestion. Your skills won’t exactly be utilised effectively outside of a forge, will they?” _And Arya may enjoy your presence here, should she ever return._

He could see Gendry contemplating. “I like it here well enough, and if you're offering… I’ll ask Lord Beric. If he says I can stay, then I’ll stay.” He smiled at Jon. It was an honest smile, and good.

Jon returned the gesture easily, finding he liked this boy. “Very well. I’ll see to it Mikken’s chambers are prepared for you.”

Gendry’s eyes grew wide as he stammered a response, “No, m’lord, I couldn’t- “

“You can and you will,” Jon interceded, “can’t have our smith sleeping in an encampment, can we? Come to me with your Lord’s answer once you get it, Ser.” He left Gendry with something of a flummoxed expression.

 

* * *

 

Walking back to the castle, he saw Val in the courtyard, conversing with someone hidden from his view behind the castle wall, though by the telltale booming laughter Jon ascertained that it was Tormund. Jon was not worried; he had long since learned to trust them both. They looked to him as he approached and nodded. He returned the greeting. Ghost padded over to Val and she brought her hand down to stroke his fur. She was exceedingly lovely in her white bearskins, and with Ghost next to her she sincerely looked like the wildling princess she was. 

“Planning the defence of the North, are we?” Jon asked.

Val grimaced. “Before breaking my fast? Not likely.”

Jon laughed and removed his gloves. “Go fetch some then. There’s bacon in the hall.”

“Later, mayhaps. I’ll stay out here a while longer,” she said, tilting her head to look at the sky.

Tormund leaned close to Jon and whispered, “She likes the morning snow. She thinks it’s _beautiful_.” He snorted.

Val hit his arm, slightly too hard to be considered friendly. “I heard that, you overgrown oaf. Gods know _you_ have an odd taste for beauty,” she retorted, undoubtedly referring to Tormund’s bizarre infatuation with Lady Brienne.

“Har! Speak no more o’ that, Val, or there’ll be needs to defend her honour from you, woman or no,” he said.

“Just you try,” she warned, utterly unfazed, “and since when have _you_ been the sort to defend a woman’s honour, Tormund?”

“She’s a _lady_ , Val, and that’s what southron ladies expect from their men, isn’t it, Lord Snow?” he questioned, turning to Jon.

“It’s true,” he replied, “It’s expected.”

Val looked utterly disgusted. “ _Southrons_ ,” she muttered.

“How fares the little prince, Val?” Jon asked.

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face fell. “Fair. He’s with his wet nurse,” she replied briskly.

He and Val had come to trust one another immensely, but this was a matter that still remained a source of friction between them. After Melisandre’s exile, he had told her the truth: that her nephew was at Horn Hill, with Samwell and Gilly, and that the babe here was Gilly's son by Craster. The boy was safe, he had told her. It had been necessary to send him away to keep him from Lady Melisandre’s fires. She had raged and fought and cried, but eventually she had relented and agreed that it was best, for now. She had vowed to bring him back, though, once it was safe.

“I’m going to the godswood,” she announced, already beginning to walk away, “I will join you later, Tormund.”

“Wait,” Jon called after her, “take Ghost. He doesn’t seem to want to leave you.” It was true; he had made to follow Val but had stopped when he noticed Jon wasn’t in pursuit. Jon crouched down to look at him.

“Go on, go with her. She’s upset.” Ghost blinked in understanding, then acquiesced and followed her.

She truly was beautiful, Jon thought as he watched her walk away, Ghost at her side. He might have had her, once. Perhaps, one day, when this was all over, he still might.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fun to write. I hadn't really intended to include Val or Tormund but I remembered how much I enjoyed their dynamic in the books. Let me know if you want her to be featured more!


	4. The Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's here. I obviously have no idea how it will happen in the book, but here's my take.

**Arya**

She half expects the gates to already be open for her. She’s never been confronted with a closed Winterfell, and the sight is almost hostile. She had stopped using the dye for her hair once the ship had arrived at White Harbor. For some irrational, inexplicable reason, it was important to her that she returned to Winterfell honestly, without disguise or deception.

“Open up, stupids!” she hollers to the guards atop the walls. So much for her grand return.

They laugh. “What d’you want, boy? Got something to peddle? Do it in the town.”

“I’m not a peddler _or_ a boy, I’m Arya Stark. Let me in.”

“Now I think about it, I think I do see tits. Tell you what, I’ll sing this song to the king for a kiss.”

 _A steel kiss is the only one you’re getting._ “No. You’re too old and smelly,” she calls back.

More laughter. “Ho! I was comely enough in my youth!” he calls. “Ah, Others take you. Lucky for you we’ve orders to inform the king of mention of the girl, and you fit the likeness well enough. Come on in.”

The gates opened. She urges her horse forward, and observes this place from atop. This place that had once been her home. It had felt safe to her once; its walls indestructible, its people untouchable. That belief hadn’t protected them from the Turncloak, though, nor Roose Bolton either. She could hear the buzz of conversation before her. One of the guards walks off towards the library, the other tries to still the reins of her horse, but she is suddenly afraid to stand, so she shrugs him off. She trots forward, passes under the walkway and into the courtyard. It was very crowded. Scattered pairs of combatants were sparring, however most were just idling and talking amongst themselves. She could see Northmen… but there were stranger people here too: women with spears, men with animals stalking at their sides, even children. _Happy_ children, weaving through the throngs of men and women, unafraid. People began to stare at her. She glimpsed two little boys squabbling over an axe taller than them by half. She ought to just dismount, lead her horse to the stables and find Sansa. Find Jon. She couldn’t. _He’ll not know me._ She hadn’t considered that. _He’ll hate you for what you’ve done._ He will. _He’s a king now not just a bastard, he’ll execute you for murder -_

The doors of the library tower crashed open, the racket drawing stares. A tall man rushes out, his eyes searching. _Dark eyes, like mine._ They lock on her.

At the sight of him fear hits her suddenly, like a dagger in the dark. _Fear cuts deeper than swords,_  she recites, _t_ _he man who fears losing has already lost._ But she could taste it, acrid on her tongue. She couldn’t shake it. And so, like a craven, she turns her reins and gallops towards the gates like the seventh hell itself is following her. They were still open, and in her haste she rides down one of the guards that had admitted her. She hears him bellowing curses at her as she rides off.

She makes it maybe fifty yards before she hears him: somehow, she knows it’s him. A single rider galloping at breakneck speed, from what she can hear. Her horse is already tired, she's exhausted, and she can’t outrace him. She slows, dismounts and prepares herself for the worst. 

 

* * *

 

**Jon**

The rider stopped and dismounted. Jon did the same. _Let it be her, let it be her, let it be her._ The figure turned to face him.

It was her.

She was gaunt and grey but it was definitely her. The same matted bird’s nest hair. The same long face. _She’s grown, but not much_. She even had the same little sword he had given her, in a scabbard around her waist. _Needle. She kept it, all these years._

Happiness such as he had not felt since before he could remember unfurled in his chest at the sight of her, it buoyed his steps as he made to move towards her –

She made a strange movement. He stopped suddenly. Surely, _surely,_ he had seen wrong because Arya, his little sister, could _not_ have just _recoiled_ from him. But no, there she was, recoiling. She was unmoving, staring at him with impossibly wide eyes as though he would attack her. This was not the Arya he remembered, that strong and fierce, wilful wolf girl. This was… _no_. He examined her again, closely. This _was_ Arya, he registered on closer inspection, though now he noticed a difference he must have glossed over at first glance.

It was the eyes that were different, they were… haunted, darker than he remembered; reflected with ghosts and grief. These eyes had witnessed things no child should have seen, mayhaps not even a man grown. And Jon recognised exactly what he was seeing now. This was the Arya after her father was wounded. This was a child after one of her nightmares. He had seen simple fear on many a man’s face, that wasn't what this was. This was Arya in an exceedingly rare moment of pure, undiluted terror.

There was only one method Jon knew of to confront terror.   

“’Tis a good thing you have not gotten bigger, little sister, else you would have outgrown your sword,” he said, forcing humour to his voice; and these shallow words were the first he’d spoken to her in years. He wanted to say so much more, but he couldn’t, not yet. _You must be calm. You cannot allow yourself to cry, or she’ll run. She’s like prey caught in a trap._

She gazed at him cautiously. “No, I –,” she began, but then a sob choked back her words. He saw her look at him, _really_ look at him, and then she began to cry. It wasn't laughter, clearly, but it was something at least. For a moment she tried to wipe her tears away angrily but quickly gave up once she realised she wasn't going to stop. She fell to her knees.  

And all of a sudden, her fear crumbled.

He hurried to her now, certain that she wasn't going to run or flinch away. He took her in his arms as he had wanted to since he laid eyes on her, and held her to him, crushing her head against his chest. She returned his embrace tenfold. _Good, that’s good. She’s only hurt, not broken._ She was grasping him so tightly. Her tears were soaking his cloak. He needed that; he’d been the one that had had to comfort her, but right now _she_ was the one reassuring him, even if she didn’t know it. For a second, one terrible second, he’d believed she didn’t want him, that she was scared of him. He cannot imagine how devastated he would have felt if she hadn’t let him near her.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she said, voice breaking. She stared up at him, eyes red. “I’ve missed you.”

The pain in her voice was breaking his heart. “I’ve missed you too. Terribly,” he told her. _I died for you._  

“I need to tell you something,” she said, with resolution.

He frowned. “Can’t it wait?” he asked. He didn’t want to talk; he just wanted to hold her a while.

“No,” she replied, tone resilient. She detached herself from him. “I – I need to tell you now or I never will.”

“All right, then,” he said, curiosity peaked. “Tell me.”

She took a breath. Closed her eyes. Calmed her breathing. “I’ve killed, Jon,” she stated, like she was admitting some terrible crime. She lifted her eyes to his. “I’ve killed a lot.” She was looking at him expectantly, as though awaiting a terrible blow. Jon thought she might start crying again.

“So?” he said.

Her mouth dropped open. _“So?"_ She repeated back, astonishment clear on her face.

He sighed. "This isn't entirely unexpected - you _have_ been travelling alone, after all. I am sorry that you have had to kill, little sister. To take a man's life is a terrible burden," he explained. "But I do not think less of you for it. I've killed too. More than I care to admit."

"Yes, but..." she began nervously. She didn't seem to know how to respond.

 _She thinks I won’t love her,_ he realised with shock. He took her in his arms again and smiled a gentle smile, stroking her hair; calming her as though she were a spooked horse. He told her exactly what she needed to hear. It just so happened to be the truth. “Arya, I would love you if you had killed a thousand men. I’d love you if you knocked the wall down singlehandedly. I’d love you if our lord father returned from the grave to cast you out and curse your name,” he told her. “I don’t care what you’ve done. I only care that you're here now.”

She eyed him. “Not all of them deserved it,” she said expectantly, as though this would make a difference.

“I don’t care,” he repeated a third time, more firmly this time. “You’re home. That’s all I care about, do you understand?”

He said this with hard eyes, and looking into them she seemed to accept this answer, and offered him a small smile. The first smile he’d had of her. He kissed her temple. They sat together for a time before any more was spoken.

 

* * *

 

**Arya**

Eventually, though, Jon did speak to her again. And this time he wanted answers. “Why didn’t you come to me after father – after it happened?” Jon asked, almost accusingly.

She turned her head away from him. At his words, Arya could feel her thoughts glazing over again with memories. _Her father, her tall, proud father - kneeling before Joffrey. She’d never felt such hate in her life as in that moment. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move; she could only cry like a stupid child whilst Yoren held her back. Robb’s body, mutilated. Traitors jeering all around him. “We have to go get my mother… maybe we can save her,’” She’d said. Stupid. Don't you know she's already dead? She’d tried to run to her, to her mother, before the Hound brought an axe down on her head. She still had nightmares…_ How could she talk about all that, explain it? She had never talked about it, not to anyone. She didn’t even like to _think_ about it.

Arya didn’t know that she would ever confess those dark and horrific moments of her life, not even to Jon, so all she said was, "I tried.”

He cupped her face in his hands. He must not have liked what he saw there, or mayhaps there was something in her eyes, because he started to cry. It was so cold that the tears were freezing on his cheeks. Arya hated it when people cried, herself most of all. Crying was for stupid, weak babes. Somehow, though, Jon didn't look weak. She didn’t even realise he had gathered her up and was carrying her back through the castle and to the godswood until she heard the activity of the castle. Had any other living person tried this, they would have developed a case of sword through bowels, but this was _Jon._ There were people staring at them. She turned her face to hide in his shoulder. _Let them think I’m tired or starving_ _or weak_. _Just don’t let them see that I’ve been crying._

She reemerged once they had reached the sanctuary of the deserted godswood. She glanced up at her brother's face. Jon was so _different,_  now _._ He had always been tall, but he was taller now than even their father. His hair had grown too, and his face had lost the slight roundness of youth it had once had.

Arya thought everything would be different now that he was a king, and she told him so once he set her down before the heart tree.

“It won’t be, you’ll see," he replied determinedly. "We’ll ride so fast through the wolfswood we lose our way. We’ll stay all night in the godswood, just like we used to. Only now, no one will be able to tell us off.”

She frowned. “I’d rather someone _was_ here to tell us off,” she remarked sadly.

Jon’s face grew solemn again. “Aye,” he said. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

**Jon**

“Now,” he said, rising, “stand. You’ll face the castle on your feet, I think. A princess must be graceful.”

She snorted, standing. “The only _princess_ here is you. You’re prettier than Sansa _and_ your hair’s long now. You should wear a gown.”

Jon stilled, a wicked idea striking him. He grinned. “Mayhaps _you_ should wear a gown, little sister,” he said, voice heavy with suggestion. He waited for her reaction, grin widening, “Mayhaps with a pattern of acorns?”

She turned to him, oh so slowly, recognition dawning on her. The look she gave him was nothing short of deadly. “Who. Told. You?”

“Your friends have been telling me all about your travels. Don’t be upset!” he said, dancing out of reach of her fists, which had begun flying at him.

“I’m – not – upset - I’m - _angry,_ ” she retorted between breaths.

“You need not worry, little sister, I am certain you looked beau – _ow_!” He exclaimed, as she finally managed to land a blow, toppling them both over in the process. They were too tired to fight after that, so they simply lay there, laughing.

He spent a while longer there with her, reminiscing in the snows of the godswood. He would deal with everything else later.

How he had missed this. Had he ever felt so comfortable with someone as he had with her? He already knew the answer to that.  _No._ This was a bond that had been formed between them before either of them knew what it was; what it meant. The Bastard of Winterfell and Arya Underfoot. The outcasts. They had been all each other had as children. That bond had been honed and attended to and cherished for years upon years, without ever needing to actively maintain it. How could anything compare to that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know this isn't necessarily how canon accurate Arya would react, because I know she firmly believes that Jon will want her, but I thought it would be a bit more interesting to write if both of them had a little insecurity going at first. And don't worry, Arya won't be crying anymore, it was just a special occasion. 
> 
> I don't think I'm gonna be updating for a while now, I haven't got anything else written. Let me know what you think so far!


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